Even from a young age, the newsreels fascinated Orpheus. On the rare occasions Hermes had free time from his job, they'd go to the cinema together, and while the comedies made him laugh til he cried and the romances made him swoon with wonder and awe, it was the reels that captured his attention and held it.
Part of it was the mystery of who made them; Hades was known as the unseen one, a god who, unlike Zeus, kept his face in the shadows even when on film, so none could see him too clearly. But his words echoed through the cramped theater, words of promises and power and food, and if Hermes didn't have an inside look at Hadestown Orpheus knew he'd have been tempted to believe him.
"Is he allowed to lie like that," Orpheus asked once, and Hermes gave a rueful smile and shook his head. "The thing is, Orpheus," the messenger god revealed, "is he's not lying—not entirely. What he says is technically the truth, but he doesn't reveal all of it. And sometimes, half-truths are more dangerous than outright lies."
Even knowing his speech was full of half-truths—food, yes, but also hard labor; equal pay for all, but merely a pittance—the man was captivating, and the audience's eager response only solidified Hades' grip. The Hadestown sponsors were by far the most popular programs shown, eclipsing Aphrodite's beauty products, Athena's political career, and even Poseidon's fisheries despite their best efforts to keep up. And the news they delivered, while not always cheerful, was full of hope—someday, Hades promised, you too could earn your ticket to Hadestown, join his workforce and never go hungry again.
Orpheus didn't go to the cinema often enough to make it a habit, but when Hermes brought him the evening's papers after a rush of deliveries—food, cards, whatever letters mortals sent—he found they were much the same, extolling Hadestown's virtues and keeping any shadows, however slight, buried in praise and promises. Granted, it wasn't the only newsworthy item; Zeus made headlines daily with one affair or the other, while his wife, Hera, fumed and reflected on the good old days, and Demeter's reports on the harvest and weather were of vital importance no matter where you stood.
But those items were mainly concerned with the gods, sparing the mortals little thought, and maybe that was why Hades held the sway he did. Even if it was half-truth, half-lies, in some respects he cared for the mortals under his thumb. And Orpheus, reading how the workers were said to be cared for as closely as Hades' children, paid attention the others denied them, could see how easy it was to get sucked in.
Hermes' bar, thankfully, was an outlier in this world of gods and men, a place for anyone, divine or mortal, to sit back, kick up their feet, and wash away their sorrows for a day or two while the jukebox cranked out music and Orpheus gave live performances, lyre in hand. It felt like home for him even before he officially moved into the spare room upstairs, and from the weary patrons' smiles on seeing him, Orpheus hoped it felt the same for them, too. A little comfort before the people headed out into the world again, which was hard and getting harder all the time.
Over time, things changed, almost imperceptibly. The cinemas' reels became more and more focused on Hadestown, which seemed to have taken cues from Zeus in terms of electricity, wealth, and splendor, and where Persephone had once stood beside her husband as he gave his speeches, now she stood behind him, smiling only for the camera's eyes. Once, so quick even Hermes almost missed it, a deep frown creased the Queen's face before disappearing.
By this time Orpheus well knew the reels told stories through a lens, showing only what they wanted to show, and Hermes had briefed him on the true, miserable state of the town and its people. It made him sad and angry to hear of the Underworld's dealings, but what really worried him was the truth to Hades' words. Spring was long-gone, fall a distant memory, and for the price of a ticket you could travel down to Hadestown and never worry about the weather, never worry about food or hunger again.
After that, Orpheus stopped going. He had a job cleaning tables, now, and with the weather as bad as Hades claimed and worse, there was little time for recreation. The King of the Dead's words had given him an idea, though. Mr. Hermes had said Orpheus's singing was a gift, a way to see the world for what it was and make it better. If the weather was bad and getting worse, maybe a song could heal it, fix what was broken between the King and Queen.
Maybe his song could help the world.
It couldn't hurt, he thought, to try.
And long after his own journey to Hadestown, after his journey to save Eurydice with the song to bring back spring and remind Hades and Persephone of their love, Orpheus found himself in the worn theater seats again. The reels were more honest this time, he noted, talking of hard labor, admitting to past mistakes, but also making promises for the future—promises to be better than before, and Persephone spoke alongside Hades as they vowed to bring change.
But while the news was welcome, and he hoped they would follow through, it wasn't what Orpheus paid the closest attention to.
At every shift of the camera, every new angle, he searched the workers' faces for a glimpse of Eurydice.
And, Orpheus hoped, she searched for his face too.